An Eye For An Eye
by LadyNobleSong
Summary: Beatrice is like retinal persistence, a vision permanently burned into the back of your lids. (You wonder if, when she closes her eyes, she sees you too.) Loosely based on the incredible song "Girl With One Eye" by Florence And The Machine.


**Notes** **:**

For callme-c0nn0r.

 **Disclaimer** : I don't own these characters. Unfortunately.

This story was inspired by the art of the _amazing_ callme-c0nn0r, and three gorgeous pieces in particular. (I can't link them here, but do check his blog out!)

Thanks for reading! - Wil x

PS: I'm just saying, reviews are very _in_ right now.

* * *

 **An Eye For An Eye**

 _She told me not to step on the cracks,_

 _I told her not to fuss and relax,_

 _Pretty little thing stopped me in my tracks,_

 _But now she sleeps with one eye open,_

 _But that's the price she'll pay._

…

The first time you meet Beatrice, you are shocked by how _young_ she looks. She smiles brightly, teeth – a little askew – proudly showing. Somewhere between your chest and stomach, something clenches, and you wonder how anyone raised among VFD can look so happy and ebullient. You're both around the same age, but there's something child-like about her still, something long discarded by you. It vexes you, somehow.

You're still sizing her up as you lift the silver tray off the counter, tea swaying dangerously in the porcelain cups. Ever the gracious hostess, you begin to make your way back to the lounge until the tip of your heel catches the corner of a marble tile. Before you lose your balance, however, soft fingers wrap tightly against yours, steadying the tray.

You look up, and of course it's _her_.

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back," Beatrice hums with a half-smile, gently attempting to pull the tray away from you.

"There's no need; I'm fine," you snap at her, trying for aloofness.

"I don't mind," she replies, slipping the tray from your fingers to hers. Before leaving, she turns back to flash you a smile over her shoulder, and has the nerve to top it off with a wink.

You feel humiliated, which probably explains why blood is rushing to your cheeks, and your heart can't seem to stop pounding as you watch Lemony press a shy kiss to her forehead.

* * *

 _I took a knife and cut out her eye,_

 _I took it home and watched it wither and die,_

 _Well, she's lucky that I didn't slip her a smile,_

 _That's why she sleeps with one eye open,_

 _But that's the price she'll pay._

…

It's ten years later, and Beatrice has obviously refused to learn anything about fashion over the last decade. She looks positively ridiculous in her white blouse and light-grey vest: everyone knows bright colours have been _in_ for at least two-and-a-half weeks. But the most offending item is undoubtedly the gold monocle hanging from her buttonhole. It keeps swaying, catching and reflecting the light as Beatrice talks, which is certainly why everyone in the room – including you – can't seem to take their eyes off of her.

Beatrice eventually makes her way to you, sitting down gracelessly on the opposite side of the settee. After a few moments of customary small talk, she inches closer to you, one of those conspiratorial smiles of hers stretching her lips.

"Bertrand and I are engaged," she whispers somewhere above the crook of your neck. You sit up, putting distance between your bodies, and stare at her blankly. You can tell she is trying to look composed, but the sparkle in her eye and the crinkle of her mouth betray her. You think you can almost see the teeth behind her smile.

"What about Lemony?" you ask, because there's nothing else you can think to say.

"Since when do you care about him?" Beatrice sneers back, hurt flashing briefly in the back of her eyes. "I thought you hated him since that review in _The Daily Punctilio._ What gives?"

And she's right – you don't care. But there's something remarkably like anger crawling right under your skin, and what could it be, if not a dormant sense of right and wrong?

It's not like you would ever be _jealous_ of someone like Beatrice.

Or Bertrand, for that matter.

All the latter has to his name is an inconvenient number of relatives – and now Beatrice, you suppose. Besides, he should be grateful that you never went after her yourself, because everyone knows you could've had her if you'd tried. You've seen the way she looks at you whenever you smile.

Later, when Beatrice has dozed off on the sofa and Bertrand is nowhere to be found, you pluck a pair of manicure scissors from your clutch, and cut Beatrice's monocle right off its ribbon.

You don't know why you did it, and you don't think it matters. What you _do_ know is that it sits in your pocket for months, and you get an odd sense of satisfaction from thumbing it when no one's looking.

* * *

 _I said, hey, girl with one eye,_

 _Get your filthy fingers out of my pie,_

 _I said, hey, girl with one eye,_

 _I'll cut your little heart out 'cause you made me cry._

…

It's the day of Beatrice's wedding. You wouldn't even have remembered it, if it weren't for Olaf constantly spewing nonsense in your direction. He claims to be mad about not getting an invitation, but he's never been that great of an actor, and you know better: there's only so many times a person can be dumped a different Snicket sibling before growing bitter and resentful.

(On your good days, you almost feel sorry for him.)

You, on the other hand, have received an invitation to the event weeks ago. But weddings haven't been _in_ as of late, and you have no particular desire to watch Beatrice beam as she ties herself to yet another mediocre man. Bertrand isn't an unpleasant person per se, but there's _something_ about him that sets your teeth on edge.

Olaf departs early in the evening, leaving you alone with your thoughts. For a split second, you have half a mind to show up to the wedding after all – if anything, it would give you an excuse to parade in your latest, _innest_ gown.

You flip through your latest auction catalogue, retrieving the eye-shaped origami that serves as a wedding invitation, and has Beatrice written all over it. Unfolding paper with a manicure is more complicated than it sounds, and for a moment you're convinced she did all this just to spite you.

By the time you get to her intricate, impersonal scrawl, anger is already running through your veins – as it often does whenever Beatrice is concerned. She still calls you 'Eggs' – a nickname you dislike almost as much as you do her – and apparently can't refrain from using her silly little codes for any kind of correspondence.

The more you think of her, the stronger your urge to break something grows.

Well, you wish Bertrand the best of luck.

There's an odd, prickling sensation in the corner of your eye; it doesn't really register until you catch yourself wiping a stray teardrop from your cheek.

Fuck.

'Look what you did,' you mutter after a graceless sniffle.

(Are you talking to her, or yourself? You're not entirely sure.)

You pluck the invitation back from the coffee table, sparing it one last, bitter glance before tearing it to shreds, your manicure be damned.

It helps, but it's not enough.

Your vision is starting to blur, and soon enough you can feel the trails of hot tears slicing through your cheeks. There has to be _something_ better at numbing the pain.

Ignoring the slight tremble of your hands, you pour yourself a glass from the first bottle you can find, downing it in unladylike gulps. The familiar burn of liquor running down your throat is enough for you to spring back to your feet, and into action. You start frantically digging through your pockets and purses until you finally retrieve Beatrice's monocle, and fling it to the floor without a second thought.

It doesn't break, which only adds more fuel to your fire.

(This is how she wants to play it, then. Fine.)

You step into your highest, sharpest pair of stiletto heels, and deliver a swift stab to the centre of the lens: it shatters under your heel with a most satisfying crack.

It looks like a grotesque, one-woman parody of the wedding ceremony, you realise, irrepressible laughter bubbling in your stomach. You can't help the cackle that escapes your lips as you continue trampling down the offending item, until there's nothing left to see but a pile of broken glass.

As you drop to your knees to assess the damage, you're only barely aware of the tears still spilling from your eyes.

…

Later, after you've settled down and disposed of the debris, you decide that no one shall see you cry ever again. You're absentmindedly fiddling with the gold rim of Beatrice's monocle –you couldn't bring yourself to throw it away, for some reason – when the solution presents itself to you: shades.

The next day, you invite your favourite jeweller from the city over, and have them make a pair of yellow shades from the remains of Beatrice's monocle.

You look damn good in them. No one ever figures it out.

(Some days you wish Beatrice did. Some days you think maybe she has.)

* * *

 _I slipped my hand under her skirt,_

 _I said don't worry, it's not gonna hurt,_

 _Oh, my reputation's kinda clouded with dirt,_

 _That's why you sleep with one eye open oh,_

 _But that's the price you'll pay._

…

The next time you invite Beatrice over for tea is a few months after your marriage to Jerome. He is off somewhere celebrating with Bertrand and Lemony – a strange combination if you've ever seen one – and you and Beatrice are sat on opposite sides of the couch, just like that night so many years ago.

You're mildly concerned that Beatrice is going to spend the entire evening fawning over those _darling_ children of hers (whose name you couldn't be bothered to learn), but there's a brand-new rock on your finger, and a brand-new penthouse for you to parade in, and you _know_ it'll be worth once you catch that flicker of envy in her eyes.

For once however, Beatrice seems uncharacteristically quiet and reserved, all half-smiles and furtive glances. It both puzzles and irritates you, somehow.

You stare at her for a bit, before asking the question that's burning on the tip of your tongue.

"What happened to your eye?"

There's a nasty-looking scar running over her right eyelid, pale and a little gnarly. Her eye, too, looks duller than before.

"Oh, it's nothing," Beatrice brushes off with a wave of her hand. "I broke a champagne flute on our wedding night, and a piece of glass flew into my eye."

You freeze at the words. Your hand is hanging in mid-air, only vaguely aimed at the teacup facing you.

It's your fault.

 _It's your fault it's your fault it's your fault._

Silence stretches uncomfortably, so Beatrice continues.

"You'd think that never happens, and yet here I am," she jokes. "It's completely healed now, though."

"Can you see?" you ask, forcing each word out.

"Not as well as I could before, but I'm not entirely blind either. I make do."

There's a bluntness in her tone that advises you not to press the matter further, so you don't. Instead, you just watch her as she plucks sugar cubes from your bowl with her bare fingers, popping them into her mouth absentmindedly.

It looks indecent, almost offensive.

It's nearly enough to silence your urge to see her suddenly turn towards you, and press a sugar cube against _your_ lips for a change.

…

A few hours go by before you suggest switching tea for liquor, and come back from the kitchen with two chilled martini glasses.

Beatrice picks hers up by the base, as she always does. It might look endearing to others, but to you, it just looks plain offending. She sips quietly, toying with the lid of the sugar bowl still propped up on her knees with her free hand.

"I might steal this, you know," she declares suddenly. "It's pretty, and I want it."

(The liquor going down your throat seems to burn more than usual.)

"No you won't," you respond, a little mean and a little breathless.

"You'd be surprised by what I can do," you hear her say, her voice almost like a purr.

Pointedly ignoring the thrumming in your chest, you take the sugar bowl away from her and place it back on the coffee table, where it belongs.

"Or maybe you wouldn't," Beatrice adds after a pause, considering something on her lap. You follow her gaze, and only then do you realise that one of your hands has settled on the hem of her skirt.

You toy with the stitching for a moment, before slipping a tentative finger under the fabric, barely grazing the skin. You wonder how much coaxing it would take for her to kiss you.

When you look up to her eye-and-a-half, though, you're surprised to find no trace of fear or hesitation there – only desire, anticipation, and something like hunger.

Your throat catches, and for a short while, you forget how to breathe.

Ever so slowly, you begin running the tip of your fingers against her thigh. Beatrice lets out a low hiss, and wraps her hand around your wrist tightly.

(It's over, you think. You pushed her too far, too fast.)

"Esmé," Beatrice whispers under her breath and _oh_ , you had forgotten how your name sounded in her mouth. "Sweetheart, stop thinking so much."

Her eyes lock with yours, unwavering, as she gently guides your hand further up her skirt.

The pads of your fingers are now brushing against Beatrice's inner thigh, causing her breath to hitch with every stroke. If you didn't know better, you would say you could almost feel the heat coming from the juncture of her legs, pulling you in.

You decide to kiss her, then, slow and deliberate. Your other hand loses itself in the soft ruffles of her lilac blouse, half an inch away from her breasts, from her heart.

"Come on," Beatrice urges between two brushes of her lips. "You're not going to break me." Her tongue meets yours for the first time, all too briefly, before she pulls away again. "Besides, I know for a fact it's not the first time you do this."

Her words are laced with the slightest hint of cruelty; you retaliate by digging your teeth into her bottom lip a little harder than necessary. The pleading moan that escapes Beatrice when you do, however, is enough to melt through your anger and ignite a dull yet persistent throb in between your legs.

"Look who's talking," you reply with a scoff, pulling her towards you by the waist.

And then you kiss her and kiss her and _kiss her_.

…

When you wake up the next morning, Beatrice is gone, and so is the sugar bowl.

In its stead, you find your own pair of shades, neatly folded.

 _An eye for an eye._

Now there's no doubt that Beatrice had known all along, and it enrages you.

You waste a few seconds looking for a note you know you're not going to find, and come back empty‑handed, obviously. Still, it surprises you when a single, scalding tear crashes against the back of your hand.

Very well, then. If theft was to be your only means of communication, your only common ground, so be it. You just hope Beatrice is prepared for what she has coming, because you've never been one to do things halfway.

Oh, you _will_ get revenge. No doubt about that.

* * *

 _I said, hey, girl with one eye,_

 _Get your filthy fingers out of my pie,_

 _I said, hey, girl with one eye,_

 _I'll cut your little heart out 'cause you made me cry._

 _You made me cry,_

 _You made me cry,_

 _You made me cry._

…

Beatrice is dead.

Burnt to a crisp in a fire that engulfed her entire home – if that's not the most _ironic_ thing anyone's ever heard.

You could almost laugh, if you weren't so fucking sad.

You tell yourself, over and over again, that you're only upset because you didn't get a chance to end her yourself. You'd wanted to cut her heart out for so long, and now _Olaf –_ out of all people – stole your moment, your only occasion for revenge? Anyone in their right mind would be furious.

It doesn't explain why you haven't stopped sobbing, though.

When Jerome gets back from the funeral, his eyes are still swollen and watery.

"Haven't you stopped crying since you left?" you ask, and you're mortified to realise your tone isn't half as cutting as you'd hoped.

"Have you?" he replies, kind and quiet as always.

(It makes you sick. _He_ makes you sick.)

"I haven't shed a single tear," you say proudly, chin high. "You know I hated her, darling. I couldn't care less that she's gone."

Jerome doesn't answer anything. He only takes a step closer to you and wraps his arms around your waist, anchoring you to the ground. Ever so gently, he pulls you in until your back can rest against his small, chubby frame.

You readjust your shades, press a fist against your lips, and clench, and clench, and clench your teeth.

(And hope, and hope, and _hope_ he can't hear the sobs scraping against your throat.)

You throw up several times that night, bile and blood mingled.

…

A few months later, Jerome comes home one night looking uncommonly excited. You stare as he compliments circles around you, and acts even more careful than usual. You've always known how to read him, and this time is no different: he wants something from you.

You roll your eyes, and brace yourself for the worst.

He is almost giddy with excitement when he tells you the Baudelaire children have survived the fire. His sentences are messy and tangled, but from the chunks of information you manage to catch – something about a banker, several dead guardians, and a lifelong desire to have children – you know precisely what he's getting at.

Here it is – your deus ex machina.

Finally, _finally_ , you get to steal back from Beatrice.

(And, who knows, you might even recover the sugar bowl in the process.)

"So what do you think, my darling?" Jerome finally asks, timidly concluding a rather long-winded plea.

Everything clicks into place.

You turn and bare your teeth at him, your smile looking more like a sneer by the minute.

…

You refuse to acknowledge the several beats your heart misses when Olaf first mentions a possible survivor of the Baudelaire fire.

(Treacherous little thing.)

For all you know, it might well be a fluke. Besides, like you would _ever_ give her the satisfaction.

When Madame Lulu confirms Jacques's testimony, however, the vice pressing against your heart becomes infinitely harder to ignore. You think you might be going mad, putting this much trust and power in the words of the first attractive carny you meet.

But you still haven't found the sugar bowl despite your best efforts, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you _know_ it means Beatrice is still out there, playing.

(Or at least you damn well hope it does.)

Now you can't hear anything other than your own blood pounding loudly in your ears. A smile is pulling at the corner of your lips, threatening to give you away; you bite the inside of your cheeks to keep it in.

You'll teach her to do the same, next time. It will do her good.

Later that night, you sneak away from the tent to rummage through the back of the car. You eventually find your yellow shades under a pile of lab coats, remarkably intact but for a few smudges on the lenses.

Slowly, you unfold the arms and slip them on your nose.

 _Oh darling Beatrice, two can play that game._


End file.
